


So Nice To Be Wanted

by flatbear (duffnstuff)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Thor (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffnstuff/pseuds/flatbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is haunting Clint, and he's not sure how much more he can bear. Fic contains suggestions of self-harm, and is unashamedly inspired by the gorgeous art of <a href="http://www.erebusodora.tumblr.com">erebusodora</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Nice To Be Wanted

It’s nice to be wanted.

That’s what Clint tells himself as he looks around the debriefing room.

It’s not exactly the team he had pictured. He’s thrilled with the new assignment, vetted by Director Fury himself. Which isn’t really _that_ impressive, considering their service history together, but Clint takes it as a vote of confidence from an old friend.

Which is just as good.

However.

There have been a lot of phrases kicked around. _The strongest warriors Earth has to offer. An elite team of specialised individuals. Earth’s mightiest heroes._

The last one is Clint’s favorite. But none of them seem to fit what he’s looking at right now.

Okay, so it fits Natasha. To a tee, if he’s asked. He’s willing to bet she has _specialised individual_ tattooed across her hips.

(She doesn’t. He’s checked.)

But right now, he’s looking across the table at Tony Stark. Elite? No. Mighty? Absolutely not. Clint reminds himself that he’s only here because of the suit. The armor. Fury’s probably rounding up some corn-fed marine to wear the metal death-trap with Stark calling the shots, safe inside the Helicarrier.

And then there’s Thor.

Clint’s still not on board with the whole Norse god thing. He remembers him from New Mexico. The way he tore through half a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Impressive.

But falling to ones knees in the mud and rain, in Clint Barton’s opinion, knocks you down a few rungs from deity status.

He’d been under the impression that Thor had vanished. Natasha declined to explain exactly how S.H.I.E.L.D. got him back. Clint had thought about asking if she even knew, but undoing her bra required all of his concentration.

So no. This is not the assignment Clint was expecting. But it’s better than nothing.

Isn’t it?

*

The blinking clock tells him the time is 00:00.

His watch says 03:01.

Clint groans and rolls to the side, throwing an arm over Phil’s chest. He’s out cold, usually is. The man could sleep through a hurricane, but wake with a gun in his hand at the slightest hint of trouble.

There must have been a power outage.

He reaches for the clock and hisses as a spark of electricity snaps at his hand. The clock is sitting in a puddle of cold water, and it gives a little flicker, a last whimper, before the display fades entirely.

Weird, thinks Clint. It must have been a leak, or Phil knocked over a glass of water.

What had he been dreaming about?

When had it gotten so cold in the room?

Clint stands, wrapping a robe around his waist and holding it at his hip, walking over to the window. Phil’s apartment is on the sixteenth floor. There’s a fog on the ground outside.

There’s something on the glass.

It’s wet, and as Clint gingerly trails a finger through the smudge, it’s cold to the touch. Like someone slid an ice cube across the glass.

He looks down and expects the carpet to be wet, but an experimental sweep of his bare foot tells him no, bone dry. He puts the assumption down to the lingering haze of sleep.

Outside, the fog shifts. Clint returns to bed. Phil reaches out to him in his sleep, pulling Clint against his chest.

What _had_ he been dreaming about?

*

“I’ve never seen you miss before. Ever.”

Clint isn’t listening. It’s been a long morning, he’s tired, and all he can think is how the _hell_ can Nick look so intimidating with one eye?

“Yeah,” he replies, absently. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Nick arches an eyebrow. Clint doesn’t notice; he’s looking at the edge of the desk. There’s something wrong with the grain of the wood. It’s too shiny, like a cheap laminate.

But this is Nick Fury. If someone gave him a laminate desk, half of S.H.I.E.L.D. would have been shitting splinters for a month.

“Did you hear me, Barton?”

Clint lifts his head, frowning. Had Nick been talking to him? He shakes his head no.

“I said, maybe you ought to take some time off. I know the training we’ve been putting you through is extensive, to say the least.”

“Yeah.”

Noncommittal is the best Clint can do right now. Why had he missed the target earlier that morning? Had Natasha been distracting him? Had the target somehow moved?

No. He had moved. Not the target. He remembers now.

As Clint loosed the arrow from his bow, exhaling smoothly, he had suddenly rotated to the left. Just...spun, as if his feet were on a rotating platform. His hand had caught the fletching of the arrow, sending it cartwheeling off to the side. The room had been silent as the arrow clattered across the floor.

Embarrassing. He’s supposed to hit his mark every time, and it’s such a rare event that Nick had seen fit to ask him about it in private. It rubs Clint the wrong way.

Nick suggests he sees one of the staff therapists, and then signs a slip of paper to make _sure_ Clint does exactly that. He slides the paper across the glass top of the metal desk.

Clint stops in the doorway as he leaves, looking back.

Wasn’t the desk made of wood?

*

The new clock is blinking 00:00. It smells like smoke.

Clint stares at the ceiling, unsure if he should even move. His watch ticks past 03:01.

He’s sleeping alone tonight. Phil was dispatched the previous afternoon. S.H.I.E.L.D. business. In Bulgaria.

Bring me back some of those awesome chocolates, Clint had told him.

Phil had rolled his eyes. You’re thinking of Belgium, idiot.

Clint kissed him on the cheek. I know.

But he was alone, now.

Wasn’t he?

The dream had been so vivid. Moreso than any dream he’d ever had. There were...hands. Across his skin. Covering his mouth, pressing his hips into the bed. Long fingers tangled in his hair, parting his lips and sliding into his mouth.

Long fingers, inside of him.

Clint frowns at the ceiling. Phil’s fingers are thick and rough, graceful but certainly not long.

So who had he been dreaming about?

Outside, the fog shifts. Hair-thin cracks are spreading across the window, the glass compromised by something cold, and wet.

Clint doesn’t notice.

He’s lifted up the sheets, having finally moved and noticed something...not right.

There’s something on his abdomen. Something wet, and growing cold.

He doesn’t remember coming. Whatever he was dreaming about, it must have been good. Maybe it was Phil. Maybe it was Natasha. God forbid, maybe Stark showed his irritating face.

But there are scratches.

Clint feels his breath catch in his throat. There are scratches on his thighs. Long, thin lines of red and pink. Little flecks of white, raised skin.

Did he do that? Did he scratch himself while he was dreaming?

Clint doesn’t go back to sleep, and he doesn’t leave the bed. In the morning, he scrubs his hips and abdomen until they’re raw.

*

Two days later, the S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist suggests Clint be benched.

Benched. His favorite word.

So he spends his time training, but it only makes things worse. He’s hesitating, pausing before releasing an arrow, expecting to twitch to the side again. He wants to catch it, wants to feel it. Wants to put a name to it.

He wants his life back.

Every shot Clint misses, he misses because of his own paranoia.

It’s starting to wear on him.

Phil calls him from Bulgaria, and makes a joke about chocolates. Clint doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even reply. He can tell Phil is worried, but manages to convince him not to return early.

It’s just a patch of insomnia, he says. Stressful work environment. He says something hollow and unconvincing about Stark pissing him off again, and that must be it. He knows Phil isn’t buying it.

He’s right. After a call to Nick, Phil is on the next flight back to New York. He’ll be home tomorrow.

It’s not soon enough.

*

Clint is watching the clock.

It’s ticking closer and closer to three in the morning. Closer...closer...

03:01.

Nothing. No short out. No puddle of water. No smoke.

Clint feels a surge of anger. It swells in his chest and feels like a hot poker, jabbing him forward to rash actions. He picks up the second alarm clock he’s bought that week, ripping the cord from the outlet, and throws it against a wall. It shatters.

He hasn’t slept for 24 hours now. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, 36 hour stakeouts are the bread and butter of S.H.I.E.D. Black Ops. It’s his state of mind that’s trouble.

He started shaking an hour ago. An uncontrollable tremor in his left hand. He wants Phil back, but his plane doesn’t land for another three hours.

Clint stands.

Outside, the fog is gathering.

There’s something on the window behind his head, out of his field of vision. Something wet, and cold. Cracks spread out over the surface of the glass, and this time, the dampness spreads to the carpet. It moves across the room, towards the bed, stopping beneath Clint’s feet. They’re dangling just a few inches above the carpet, and he shudders with a sudden chill. As he stands, the wetness retreats, pulling back beneath the bed like a snake in waiting.

A moment of clarity. Rationality kicks in.

There’s no point in sitting on the edge of the bed, destroying alarm clocks. He needs to keep his mind active, needs a distraction.

The television. That usually works.

He makes his way into the lounge and throws himself down on the couch, feet on the coffee table. But just because Phil’s not there to threaten the shooting of his toes.

The carpet below the table is soaked through, and ice cold.

Clint retrieves the remote and turns on the television, clicking around, looking for something interesting.

Every channel is showing the same thing.

Him.

Clint stands, and the carpet his dry. His eyes are wide and both of his hands are shaking now. He drops the remote and stares at the mirror image of himself.

He moves to the left. The image moves. He raises a hand. Same thing. He wants to scream, and the image wears a pained, distraught expression.

It has to be a trick. A mirror.

Clint vaults the coffee table and grips the top of the television with both hands, pulling it from the wall and letting it shatter and spark on the floor. There’s nothing behind it. No mirror. No cables that shouldn’t be there. No camera.

He stumbles back and hits the floor, putting a hand out to brace himself.

The carpet is soaked. It feels as cold as ice.

Clint runs. The door slams behind him, and he doesn’t even think to lock it.

The shattered, broken clock in the bedroom starts to blink.

00:00.

A figure rises out of the water in the carpet.

*

“On the steps, outside your apartment building? In his damn pyjamas?”

Phil nods.

“That’s where I found him.”

Nick folds his arms. They’re standing outside the two-way mirror, looking in on one of the medical bay rooms. Clint is sitting on the exam table in a sterile gown, staring at the floor. His fingers are wrapped around the edge of the table. His knuckles are white.

“I’m worried,” Phil says.

Nick nods.

“You have every right to be. The doc was tossing around words like ‘emotional breakdown’ and ‘psychotic break’. Sounds like the pressure’s getting to him.”

Phil hesitates, and Nick glances at him. A man like Phil Coulson doesn’t pause unless he has reason to.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“No?”

“No.”

The door opens and the nurse waves to Phil. She tells him that Clint is physically fine. She suggests sedating him, helping him to sleep. Phil politely declines, and informs her that he will be taking over from here.

Clint toys with the hem of his shirt as they walk down the hallway. Phil is staying close by his side, more than he usually does. So close that he almost trips when Clint freezes.

“What is it?”

Clint doesn’t move. His eyes are wide, his brow his creased. He sways a little and corrects himself, the color draining from his face. Phil is about to take him by the shoulders and start shaking before they’re interrupted.

“Agent Coulson, is everything alright?”

The voice is lightly accented, and Phil replies before he turns.

“Dr. Selvig. Everything’s fine.”

The look on Clint’s face says otherwise.

Everything slows. Everything. Even Phil stops moving, and Clint starts to panic.

His feet won’t lift. His hands keep shaking, but it’s slower now, as if the air has grown thick and heavy.

Dr. Selvig is watching him.

His eyes are green. They’re moving.

Clint feels the vomit rise in his throat. The air around him grows cold. Icy. Selvig speaks.

“Sleeping well?” he asks.

Clint tries to say something. He looks to Phil, but he’s frozen. He looks as though someone hit a universal pause button.

Selvig clears his throat.

“You broke your television.”

Everything snaps back into reaction in one jarring blow. The sounds of S.H.I.E.L.D. come back like a miniature sonic boom, and Phil keeps walking without missing a step. Selvig is gone, and no one mentions seeing him in the medical wing.

Clint doesn’t say so much as a single word for the rest of the day.

*

03:01 comes, and 03:01 goes. Clint is asleep.

He has been for two hours now. Phil tried to get him to talk, got angry at him, told him how worried he was. None of it worked. They eventually turned in past midnight, frustrated and uneasy.

Clint still fell asleep in Phil’s arms.

But Phil’s not there any more.

He’s cold. The change of temperature in the bed wakes Clint and he rolls over, switching on the light.

He cried out.

Phil’s eyes are empty. Wisps of green light lift like smoke from his body. No shadows are cast.

“Who are you?” he whispers, his voice rough with disuse.

“Who are you,” not-Phil replies.

A shudder runs through Clint’s body, and he notices that the alarm clock is flashing behind Phil’s head.

00:00

“You broke your television,” the voice continues, using Phil’s throat and mouth to make itself heard.

“Why are you doing this?” Clint asks. Whatever is inside of Phil smiles, and it feels like hours before anything else is said.

“Look at yourself. You’re a mess.”

Clint glances down. There’s nothing wrong. When he looks up again it feels like his eyes are only just opening. The clock reads 04:15. Phil is asleep on his back.

Look down.

Look down? A mess?

Clint lifts the sheets, and lets out a low, strangled cry.

There are scratches on his bare thighs. Long, dark scratches, pricked with spots of red blood.

He spends the rest of the night in the bathroom. Phil bangs on the door, kicks it down, begs him to explain what’s going on. Clint’s throat is so raw from vomiting that he can’t answer.

Even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say.

*

No one looks Clint in the eye.

He’s benched.

His boyfriend thinks he’s completely lost it.

Phil wouldn’t leave him in the apartment. He’s been left to wander S.H.I.E.L.D. like a wraith for most of the day.

No one will let him in the armory.

But that’s the great thing about being an archer. No one expects you to keep a gun in your locker.

He hates the look of the gun. Hates the feel of it. The weight feels wrong in his hand, the balance is horrific compared to the bow.

Hard to take the easy way out with a bow and arrow, though.

Tears roll down his cheeks.

“Why are you doing this?” Clint looks into the mirror, his hands pressed either side of the glass. He knows how awful he looks. His face is pale and drawn, there are deep lines and dark circles around his eyes. He hasn’t slept properly in days, can’t remember the last time he ate. Natasha told him he looked like he was wasting away.

He wishes it was that simple.

“Please,” he whispers, his fingers shaking against the porcelain. “Please, please...”

He’s so tired.

He can’t do this any more. A gun. After every time Phil chewed him out for eschewing the gun in favor of the bow, it feels a little ironic.

He lifts it.

Something cracks. The temperature of the room drops.

Clint opens his eyes, and there is something wet spreading across the surface of the mirror. Something cold. The glass is cracking.

A fog is gathering.

“Don’t do that.”

Clint is too tired to jump. Too tired to pull away when he feels soft, long-fingered hands rest lightly on his shoulders. He looks back, and no one is there.

When he looks in the mirror, he’s no longer alone.

He knows who that is. He whispers a name.

Loki smiles.

His hands slide over Clint’s shoulders, lifting the tension away. The gun has gone, most likely to never be seen again.

“I’m so sorry I drove you to this,” he whispers, his words coming out with a puff of frozen air. Clint doesn’t speak. Right now, the act of stringing words together feels like an impossible task.

Loki continues.

“I’ve been watching you. Haunting you, I suppose. I know my brother, I know how his mind works. But his friends. You. You’re new.”

Clint sways, staring at the reflections in the mirror. Loki is taller and thinner than him, but his green eyes glow with an unfathomable power.

“Why me?” He finally forces the words out, his voice rough and hollow. Loki laughs.

“Why not?”

It’s not enough for Clint. How could it be enough? He’s been through a week of hell that has felt like a decade of worse. He was close, so close to just giving in.

He’s tired.

He’s never been so tired.

“I can take it away.”

He looks up, meeting the reflection of Loki’s eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I can take it all away. Everything you’ve been through. I know what I came to find out. I know how easily I can slip beneath your skin. If you wish it, I can take this entire week from your mind, and the minds of those around you.”

It’s a tempting offer. But it comes at a hell of a cost. Clint knows now. He’s aware of what’s been happening to him, and he can take it to Phil. Phil would believe him. Loki has presented himself as a renewed danger, shown his cards, and Clint can turn it against him.

He can do this. Loki’s not going to win. Being taken right to the edge and then pulled back? he’s going to make this work in his favor.

Clint takes a deep breath.

“Do it.”

Loki smiles.

“I thought you might say that.”

Clint turns, raises his fists. No! he hadn’t meant to say that! He wants to use this, wants to protect the others. Oh god, what has he done? Will Loki always be a part of him, now? Will green eyes always be looking out from behind his own?

“Stop!” he cries, swinging a fist down against Loki’s chest, but there’s nothing there to hit. Loki’s form shimmers and he laughs. The bathroom starts to swim, twisting around Clint in a riot of motion.

“I’ll be watching,” Loki whispers. His smile fades, and reality blurs. “Isn’t it so nice to be wanted?”

Clint closes his eyes.

*

Phil tosses the bag down on the counter, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Clint.

Clint doesn’t tear his eyes away from the television screen. He’s playing Gears of War online with Tony, and he’d rather die than let that spoiled bastard beat him again.

“New alarm clock,” Phil announces, slapping his hand against the back of Clint’s head.

He still doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t know what you did to break the old one, but don’t do it again, okay?”

Clint grunts something noncommittal, swearing and tossing the controller across the floor as his screen goes red.

Bastard.

“You on the clock?” he asks, twisting on the couch and grinning up at Phil, who shakes his head. “Sweet. We should get dinner.”

“We need to leave soon, then,” Phil replies. “It’s starting to get weirdly foggy out there.”

Clint climbs over the back of the couch, walking across the lounge and staring out of the window.

Green eyes stare back.

*


End file.
